


Mausoleum

by necrora



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Background Character Death, Barebacking, Canonical Character Death, Evil Sam Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrora/pseuds/necrora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season 3, Dean goes to Hell and Sam enters a bar to find a man who looks exactly like his stupid dead brother. Sam’s digging his own grave of grief and madness, and he’s taking Jensen along for the ride, whether the man wants to or not.</p>
<p>Written for spnkink-meme <a href="http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/85012.html?thread=32080404#t32080404">prompt.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mausoleum

The dirt from his stupid _dead_ brother’s grave is still digging painfully under Sam’s fingernails when Sam enters the bar in the tiny Illinois town.

Sam’s been digging all day. Sam’s been working hard all day—all year, trying to save his brother. Sam’s already very, extremely, unforgivingly drunk. But that’s only one of the reasons he sidles into the seat next to an all too familiar slouch, flinging an arm around those shoulders.

His brother bolts up to his feet and shoves him off, and Sam blinks up. The wet lips that shout something at him are just a little too innocent, the skin around the mouth just a little too smooth, and Sam must understand that this man is not his brother. But the green eyes with a touch of dandelion in them look almost as dead as the last pair that Sam looked into, on the floor of a suburban house as claws ripped into a body and a pretty blonde woman laughed next to a corpse. And a muscle twitches in Sam.

His name is Jensen.

That’s all Sam can get out of him despite the copious amount of beer he invests in the man whose smile is too wide and whose laugh too happy to be the brother who brought pizza when Sam came back from the dead. But in the shifting lights of the bar, it’s almost the same. Sam knows it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Jensen sealed his fate the moment Sam descended the few steps into the musky basement bar, saw the same shoulder lines and same slouch, despite the preppy jacket that Dean would never have worn gracing Jensen’s body line.

It’s no work at all to find out where Jensen is staying. It’s no problem that it’s an expensive hotel that Dean and Sam would never have stayed in. It’s almost no extra work to herd the pack of black dogs for hours and hours, until they end up here: in the parking lot, glistening under the moonlight and desperate, hungry.

Sam can even fool himself that he did not purposefully hesitate, bringing up the gun a second too late to prevent Jensen’s right leg from being mauled.

For a civilian, Jensen’s a surprisingly good shot with the handgun Sam throws at him, though his aim’s nowhere near Dean’s precision and his mouth’s hell of a lot louder in pain and panic. Jensen’s graceful when he drops to the ground, though, and it allows Sam free shots at the remainder of the pack. He even gets another kill under his own belt when Sam lets him, and Sam can just taste the deep hole they’re digging themselves into, this man and Sam, the cement under their feet more like sinking dirt as they stare at each other over the aftermath.

“So this is what you do?” Jensen asks, slurred from the painkillers, looking up from what would have been Dean’s bed. “You drive around hunting monsters?”

“Pretty much,” Sam says. “Something about family business. Sorry about the leg, by the way. It’s generally not a good idea to go to a hospital for these things.” He’s lying through his teeth, but Dean’s eyes are looking up at him under Jensen’s brows and the second bed in their motel is not empty and Sam can’t, he can’t.

“I got that much,” Jensen says. When he throws his head back and grits through the new bout of pain, Sam wordlessly hands him water and painkillers.

Jensen’s stuck with Sam for a week as his leg heals. He doesn’t comment on the state of the crappy motel that Sam is staying in, though he does feebly push his credit card into Sam’s hands when Sam’s off grabbing grub. Sam’s irritated by Jensen’s love for vegetables, even if Jensen grabs two fries at once just like Dean does ( _used to_ ). But he likes watching Jensen when he puts on his clothes, wrapped in finer things that Dean has probably never even seen up close in his life, the Rolex Submariner that Jensen puts on the bedside table the first night and completely forgets about. Sam thinks Dean would have looked real good in Jensen’s expensive things.

Jensen limps away with an awkward hug and a phone number tucked in the front pocket of Sam’s jacket. Sam starts packing. He realizes only then it’s been a week since Dean died, hasn’t felt the time passing since he dropped his brother’s body into the ground. He feels it now that the extra body in his room is gone, the bed empty again. Sam doesn’t hurry. He goes through every weapon and every hoodie he’s shared, slowly, painstakingly, ten breaths for every second, ten seconds for every task.

Jensen is back at the door by the end of the second hour. “Look,” he says, and shuffles.

“It’s not easy,” Sam says. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to walking away or living the hunter life.

“It’s crazy.” A small sad smile plays on Jensen’s lips. “Thing is, though. I have nowhere to go back to. I was running before all this happened anyways. There was—” he starts. He stops.

Sam hasn’t told him anything about Dean, but Jensen must have noticed that everything around Sam is in pairs: two bags, two beds, two sets of keys. What he doesn’t know is how warm everything still is, how Dean’s grave dirt is still under Sam’s nails and Sam can’t get it out, how the grip on Dean’s desert eagle is still warm when Sam holds it.

Sam doesn’t plan on saying anything, anyways, so he doesn’t probe, only wordlessly holds out the gun that he’d thrown at Jensen a week and a night ago.

The man who isn’t his brother takes it.

 

_::_

 

Jensen’s a little too nice and a little too straight. Where Dean would have turned, rolled a snaking path to confuse others, Jensen lays things out for people to see and takes a moment to consider before jumping. He’s also extremely rich, from what Sam can tell. He makes up for it by being absolute shit at hunting.

“I’m _sorry_ I didn’t close the salt properly,” Jensen says to Sam when Sam walks through the motel door with dinner. “Are you starving me as punishment?”

Sam dumps the paper bag on Jensen’s lap. “Don’t get in the way next time.”

“I wasn’t going to let the spirit get you,” Jensen protests, as he awkwardly tries to open the bag with one hand, the other broken and bandaged up. Sam could help, but he watches instead. At least Jensen has bones to break, a body to keep breathing and feeding.

“I would have been fast enough to avoid it.” Sam opens his own bag.

“Whatever, dude,” Jensen says, and it almost hurts Sam the way he says it, but then he adds, “Man, In-N-Out!” and bites into the burger. He makes a happy moan, throaty and breathless and yeah, he catches Sam staring. But the punch in Sam’s gut isn’t traveling to his dick, it’s to his heart, and even Jensen’s gaze in those pretty tinted eyes, all dark and all heat and so _Dean_ in its sultry seduction, can’t reverse pain into desire.

It’s not the man’s fault he looks like Dean, Sam thinks. “Didn’t peg you for a West coast boy,” is all he says.

“Dude. Texan, born and raised.” Jensen flashes a grin.

“Yeah?” Sam’s smile is honest surprise. “Kansas, myself. Went to school around these parts, though.”

“Explains your wise taste in burgers.” Jensen swallows before he talks. “Had one of these right outside my home back in LA. Swear I had to sign a contract saying I wouldn’t eat there more than twice a week, or all bets were off on my career.”

Sam forgives him enough to push the fries over. “You lived in LA?”

When Sam looks back up, Jensen’s expression is shadowed, the dim light from the cheap motel lamp contouring his face all wrong: the cheekbones are higher, the jawbones too narrow, and that damn ring of yellow around his pupils invade the pure green that would have been Dean’s eyes.

“What’s up?” Sam asks.

“Nothing.” Jensen tilts his head. “You really didn’t know.”

Sam says blankly, “Know what?”

That’s how Sam gets to see Jensen turn on his phone for the first time, and the photos from Jensen’s modeling days and the wiki for his show. Sam laughs nonstop at Jensen in a cowboy hat, and even the rolled up burger wrapper aimed at his nose can’t stop him.

“I really thought you knew,” Jensen says, prettily, honey in his voice and fluttering eyelashes, and Sam realizes he’s looking at the actor for the first time. “I totally pegged you for a fan boy, man, the way you attacked me in that bar.”

Sam gestures vaguely at the pile of guns on his bed. “I don’t watch TV. Why’d you leave?”

“Accident on set,” Jensen says, after a long gulp of coke. He wipes his fingers instead of licking them clean. “Set closed for a while. I had to leave, I couldn’t stand being there surrounded by Hollywood and reporters anymore.”

“Sorry.” Sam can’t imagine what that feels like, but he’s been hunted by the FBI a few times, and maybe that’s a close thing.

“’salright.” Jensen turns his phone off.

 

_::_

 

Jensen wants him.

It’s in the way the man walks, the straight line now a little crooked, invariably tilted towards Sam. It’s in the way the man leans against the headboard on his side of the motel room, watching TV with grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, eyeing Sam a little too long when Sam comes out from his shower.

It’s new and it’s not. Sam’s never felt the heat that slowly swirled out from those pretty green eyes. But the way everything in Jensen slowly gravitates towards Sam, slowly running circles around him, until all Jensen’s atoms are nothing but satellites orbiting him—that, Sam knows. That, Sam is used to. Sam knows what it feels like to be the center of someone’s world.

“Shit, Sammy,” Jensen says, the first time the two of them are covered in sparkles that a poltergeist dumped over their heads, and Sam laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

_::_

When Jensen’s phone rings, it catches Sam off guard.

It’s been three months. Jensen lets the sound spread into the empty space of the motel room, the TV going low in the background and Sam looking up from the laptop like a hound scenting the air. Jensen remains on the bed, the bag of chips rustling next to him, and the phone dies off.

It picks up again, dies off again, and on the third call Jensen’s hands grasp it in the bag.

“Hey,” Jensen says into the phone, slowly.

“No,” he says. “I’m not—I’m nowhere _near_ LA, man.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know, Jay.”

Jensen’s a pacer. Sam watches him walk around the room, soft socks treading the carpet, and it’s like watching a rocket pull out of orbit. A greater force pulls at Jensen, all his moons and asteroids, until by the time Jensen reaches the window, he’s aligned anew towards his old center of the universe. Which isn’t Sam. Which never was Sam.

Sam gets up and walks towards Jensen, and when Jensen turns around, Sam’s right there, trapping him. Sam’s tall, and Jensen tilts his head up, his phone still on his ear, his expression frozen. Their bodies are close enough for Sam to hear the low laughter that drifts out from the other side of the phone.

“I’ll see you, man.” Jensen hangs up. Sam’s still there.

“Home?” Sam asks, and barely recognizes his own voice. He sounds older, huskier. He sounds like Dean. Dean, his older brother that he shares genes with, whom he just might sound like all the time when he gets older. Maybe even huskier, because older’s something Dean will never get to be. Never got to be.

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Sam—”

And just like that, Sam knows. He smiles.

“One more hunt?” He says. He still doesn’t recognize his voice, it’s deeper and darker and gone to places he doesn’t know. “It’s right in this town, pretty sure it’s a possession. His wife says he hangs out at this bar. We can find the guy tomorrow, test him out with holy water.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Jensen says after a second. His eyes are soft.

And that’s how Sam realizes that Jensen knew he was eventually going to leave, all this time. In that split second, he sees the way Jensen had looked at him, fond smile curled in his eyes when Sam wasn’t looking and heated invitation when Sam was, and sees the way all those things had been nothing but temporary, all empty promises.

But Jensen never promised anything. Sam had. And Sam sees the speck of dirt still underneath his nails, and in his mind he sees the empty motel rooms with nothing but himself in it, the pairs of everything that he will have to pack again, the grip on his brother’s gun that won’t cool and decay no matter how long his brother has been rotting away in the ground.

 

_::_

 

Jensen really is utter shit at hunting, or he would have realized sooner that the gun Sam pressed into his hands that night isn’t necessary at all for the hunt. He’s hunted demons before, so there’s no excuse not remembering that guns will do absolutely nothing against a demon.

The man doesn’t have a wife. He doesn’t have kids. He has a gang. That much Sam knows, but he doesn’t know much else about the man as he walks up and says, “I’ve been hearing trouble about you, brother.”

“Yeah?” The man twists his neck to look up at Sam, and a small tattoo lies at the base of his throat. “Fuck off.”

Sam is slow when he goes to dump the holy water on the man’s head. The man is quick to dodge and throw himself on Sam. Jensen is even quicker to shoot.

The blood spreads out from the body and Jensen sinks into it, gun dropped to the side, pupils blown so wide they’re black. He stares at the man he’s killed. “Oh god.” His jeans scrape on the wet cement, rip, and his hands are bloodied as he reaches out for the body, shaking so badly that he can’t, Jensen can’t.

“We have to get out of here.” Sam perfunctorily picks Jensen up, shoves him away. Jensen staggers, shocked and short-breathed.

“Sam,” Jensen says. “Sam, Sam.” He repeats Sam’s name all the way to the motel, repeats it as Sam shoves him into the Impala and slams on the accelerator.

Sam lets him. He drives all night and late into the day before he stops.

When he gently leads Jensen into the room he got for the night, he realizes Jensen’s still covered in the blood, torn jeans and all. His pupils are still wide as they stare at nothing. Sam takes a wet towel and dabs at his face, wipes away the worst of it, and tries to unbutton Jensen’s shirt before shrugging and ripping it instead. He peels the fabric away in strips.

It’s only when most of the blood is gone that Jensen seems to recognize what’s happening. He stares at his mostly clean, naked chest, then at Sam.

“With me?” Sam asks.

Jensen nods, tiny movements like a hurt animal. Sam’s never seen him this close but now, inches away from the defined nose and cheekbones, he sees that Jensen is incredibly good-looking. And suddenly Sam gets Dean’s swagger in bars, his smirks and his winks. More importantly, Sam sees Jensen’s wounded eyes, pain and fear laid out for all to see, and Sam finally gets Dean’s halting steps too, his hands fumbling on Sam’s arm as he looks at Sam ( _if that’s how you win wars then I don’t want to win, Sammy, I can’t do it I would rather go to hell_ ).

The phone rings.

Jensen jerks, the most reaction Sam’s seen out of the man since the shooting, and he scrambles away from the sound and into Sam. “Oh god.”

“It’s okay.” Sam stills him with one hand, fishes the phone out from Jensen’s jacket with the other. He takes out the battery and carelessly tosses it into his own duffel bag. “Worry about it later,” he lies.

“I can’t,” Jensen says, and he’s not talking about worrying. “Sam, I can’t, I can’t—” His voice is wrecked.

Sam kneels in front of him and reaches for the button on Jensen’s jeans, which are still ripped and bloody. “I know,” Sam says. He huffs the hair out from his eyes. Dean’s spent his lifetime talking Sam away from the edge but Dean’s dead and Jensen, Jensen’s begging.

That night when Sam pulls him into his bed, Jensen follows, almost gratefully, a pup following a pack leader who taught him how to hunt. Sam grinds his hips against the hardened cock of his non-brother, pants against that nape of the neck he knows better than he should.

And Jensen, he sucks Sam like his life is hanging on him, pours himself into mouthing along the soft skin under Sam’s cock and licking away at its head until Sam cries out, mind shutting down except every inappropriate thought about his brother’s lips that he never noticed before. Then he flips Jensen over before he can come all over that warm orifice, and opens Jensen up with quick three fingers before entering, fucking him in short movements before coming so that Jensen carries a little bit of Sam inside him, now.

Before Jensen can catch his breath Sam is doing it all over again, fucking steadily into him. Jensen’s arms mold over Sam’s neck and Sam comes inside Jensen again and again; and between the two of them, they make up Dean. Jensen’s eyes and Sam’s voice. Jensen’s lips and Sam’s fingers, the dirt still underneath the nails. Sam learned everything from Dean and he’s sure he can pass as part-Dean and, well, if Jensen needs to become part-Sam, a hole inside him filled with Sam’s cock and his come, so that between them they have a grotesque mausoleum dedicated to the two Winchesters so that Sam will never be separated from his brother again,

that’s fine.


End file.
